(un)lost
by agentsofthemcu
Summary: In which Thomas is accosted by a strange man in an airport at 3 AM, and his life takes a turn.
1. universe experiencing itself ironically

**A/N: This is the beginning of what I'm _hoping_ to be a decently sized modern au. This will be cross posted over onto ao3, where it will be put as a whole bunch of shots in one series, and honestly probably be organized a little neater than will be here.**

 **Work title comes from (Un)Lost by The Maine.**

 **Unbeta'd as always, so all mistakes are, of course, mine.**

 **Side note: Never in my life did I think I would see the day where I would go and dig up my old APUSH notes to reference for fanfiction.**

* * *

Thomas was pretty sure sitting the airport at three in the morning, waiting for a red-eye flight was one of the strangest experiences of his life.

He knew airports, loud, noisy places full of bustling people, but this was oddly surreal. The only interruptions to the silence were the occasional announcement over the speakers or sudden snore from one of the roughly dozen people attempting to sleep in the uncomfortable looking chairs that dotted the terminal. Lights in stores and 24 hour cafes stayed lit bright against the inky blackness outside, as if to lure in bleary travelers like moths, the clerks within them seeming to be about as awake as those they hoped to tempt.

"The only good thing about red-eye flights is that there's no line for coffee."

Thomas very nearly leapt out of his own skin when a man dropped unceremoniously into a chair across from him.

Instead of answering, he regarded the man carefully, wondering almost idly if he should seek security.

There were dark bags beneath deep brown eyes betrayed that tonight was hardly the first he'd ever spent not sleeping, though there was a brightness in his expression that made Thomas think he was excited for wherever he was going. Or for whoever he was picking up. No, there was a large tan duffel bag dropped into the seat beside him, he was definitely catching a flight out.

Long brown hair was pulled into a messy knot at the back of his head, and the slender fingers of one hand pulled lightly at the fraying ends of the sleeve of what was clearly a well loved and worn forest green hoodie while the other clutched at a cardboard cup from one of the dozens of shops.

Thomas found his gaze drawn to the stranger's free hand as it began to tap a rapid beat against a jean-clad knee, looking almost like it was doing it of it's own accord. He arched a brow, "You've _clearly_ been takin' advantage of that perk."

The man - boy really, he looked a few years younger than Thomas, eighteen, nineteen maybe - smiled almost sheepishly at him, though he made no attempt to stop the tapping.

"What can I say? I'm excited." His nose wrinkled before Thomas could reply, a thought clearly occurring, "And a little terrified, but I guess that's to be expected."

His head tilted as he examined the stranger's voice. There was just enough of a drawl in it that he wasn't a tourist, wasn't headed home after a week's stay in the mountains, but the accent wasn't quite strong enough for him to be a native either, there was something else just below it that Thomas couldn't place.

When it didn't seem like the stranger was going to continue, Thomas huffed, waving his hand in a small circle. "Where are you headed, then?"

He startled, like he hadn't expected the question, shaking his head quickly to clear it and tapping the nearby duffel bag. "South Carolina. Fort Jackson, actually." He explained, "Basic training starts tomorrow."

So he was a soldier, or at least, would be soon enough. Huh. Army, if he was remembering his bases correctly. (He was.)

Thomas found his mind wandering back to an art gallery benefit he'd attended just a few weeks ago at his mother's behest. There'd been a photo of a soldier, uniform ripped to shreds, face smeared with blood and dirt, his expression blank and eyes hollow. It'd apparently been taken an the moments after the declared end of the WWI, meant to symbolize something about the pointlessness of war when it so broke a man that he couldn't even revel in its end.

He tried to imagine the young man before him in that soldier's place - bloodied and hardened and lost looking - and found the task nearly impossible.

Maybe it had something to do with his size. The stranger was easily a head and a half shorter than himself, and though he couldn't see much through the hoodie and jeans, it was an easy assumption that he wasn't exactly built. Regardless of the reason why, he didn't exactly give off the whole 'stand-on-the-wall, protective-sentinel' vibe.

He was pulled out of his thoughts when he realized the man was speaking, asking him something. The confusion must've shown on his face, because he only rolled his eyes, as if he were used to being tuned out, and repeated himself.

"Where are _you_ going?"

"Paris." Thomas couldn't help the way just saying the name brought the touches of a smile to his face automatically. He'd spent summers in France as a child while tagging along on his father's business trips, and had always harbored a deep affinity for the culture. He'd eagerly leapt at the chance to study abroad when it'd been given to him.

"Ville de Lumière!" The stranger exclaimed brightly, and while Thomas' reflexive response was pleased surprise, his second reaction was subtle curiosity that, despite the fact that his fluidity indicated that he was fluent, there was the slightest touch of an accent he couldn't quite identify, though it was faint and barely there.

"Tu parle français?" In hindsight, the question was redundant, what with the aforementioned fluidity, and Jefferson felt himself flush awkwardly as he nearly stumbled over his own pronunciation.

"Oui!" He chuckled, shaking his head. "I learned when I was young, and a good friend of mine has _refused_ to let me get rusty."

Suddenly, as thought it were an afterthought, he cocked his head to the side, eyes going wide in a way that reminded Thomas of a small child's, as he wedged his coffee precariously between his knee and the arm of the seat and put out a hand to shake.

"Alexander Hamilton." He introduced himself.

Thomas stared at the hand for a moment before shifting forward to shake it briefly. "Thomas Jefferson."

They talked amicably for awhile. How long, Thomas lost track. Alexander told him about how his mother ('well, adoptive mother, but she's... really great. both my parents are.' he'd added fondly, while Thomas simply nodded) had insisted he stay for one last dinner and he'd ended up stuck in traffic after a wreck, making him miss his flight and have to reschedule for the four AM.

Thomas explained how he'd chosen his flight early intentionally, doing his best to avoid as much jet-lag as possible after crossing time zones.

It wasn't until the topic of conversation had circled back to airport coffee that things went awry.

Alexander jokingly mentioned how he was sure he'd accidentally miscalculate sales tax when he got to South Carolina, just by virtue of the 1 percent difference, and Thomas nodded in understanding.

"Well I don't think they ought to be charging tax anyway."

"Wait... _what!?"_ The man's voice piqued in both volume and pitch, startling a few sleeping people nearby in the terminal. Thomas probably would've laughed if Hamilton's face hadn't turned to one of offended outrage. As it was, he could see the fight brewing in the man's expression, and instead kept his own face schooled.

"You don't find it _odd_ that there's a tax on everything when the cause of the Revolutionary War that made our country in the first place was excess taxes on everyday items?" It was a well worded and practiced argument, one that Thomas wasn't actually used to anyone refuting. Alexander seemed to have other plans though, as a beat barely passed before he was retorting.

"The Revolution wasn't sparked by the taxes!" He snapped, before Thomas could so much as brace himself. Every ounce of the stranger seemed to thrum with a new sort of energy, and Thomas wouldn't have been surprised if he'd stood and began to pace. "The people were outraged over lack of representation in British Parliament, not a few pence on tea!"

It astounded Thomas how completely sure he was about that, like he was _there,_ and he was more vehement than he really ought to have been after only a few seconds. Nonetheless, he was ready to reply only a moment later.

"Then why the Boston Tea Party and the boycotts of imported goods? Because unnecessary internal taxes are downright _oppressive_ and the people knew it!"

"Those were to protest the fact that they'd had no say in the taxes, not to protest the taxes themselves - _god,_ have you ever even picked up a textbook?"

Thomas bristled then, though he wasn't even entirely certain if it was meant to be derisive - Alexander sounded almost genuinely shocked by the mere existence of an opposing position on the issue. Thomas though, was more than prepared, armed to the teeth in fact, to defend his stance.

"The first thing the new federal government did was impose more taxes on the states without their consent!"

"But that's not what happened!" Alexander shot back, unaware, or perhaps simply uncaring, of the small crowd that'd emerged to observe them curiously. "The people _had_ representation under the Constitution! The people _they_ elected were the ones who voted and decided on the taxes in Congress!"

"Oh, that's right, because they were going to even try to resist when before the people refused a whiskey tax before and the president sent _an army_ to subdue them!"

"Oh my god!" Alexander nearly shouted, "Did you just entirely miss the late 1780's in whatever history class you took!?" He was leaning forward in his seat, gesturing grandly with both hands, coffee left to sit on the chair beside him, forgotten. "The Federal government _tried_ to give states the right to choose their taxes without enforcement under the Articles of Confederation and it _failed_ so badly that the government almost collapsed from lack of funding!

"Under the Constitution, representatives voted _together_ on the whiskey tax, and five hundred men attacked a tax collector! Not only did an end have to be put to the uprising but the president _had_ to prove a point!"

Seeing an opening, Thomas leapt back in: "And he proved his point. Taught everyone a lesson: Allow the federal government to _steal_ your hard earned money or the president will sic the militia on you!"

"That's not-!"

Whatever the fuming man was about to say next was swallowed up by the noise of an announcement coming over the terminal speakers, announcing the last call for the flight to South Carolina. When had they missed the first calls? How long had they been arguing?

Conflict sprang into the frown that tugged at Alexander's mouth, and Thomas could see the mingled desire to keep fighting and arguing and the need to make his flight warring across his face. Finally he huffed, pulling a pen and a receipt from the pocket of his hoodie and scribbling something down.

Thomas stared dumbly at it for a moment when Alexander held it out to him. Absently, he noted that it was a receipt from the very coffee shop that'd started their debate, but that wasn't what held his attention.

No, he was focused solely on the phone number scrawled along the bottom, the name 'Alex' sloppily added beneath. He looked back up to ask what this was about, but Alexander was slinging his bag over his shoulder and pushing past him, almost running.

"Text me if you want to know even more reasons why you're wrong."

A couple people who'd been spectating their argument snickered, and Thomas felt his face heat up as he glared furiously at the man's retreating back.

Eventually the rest of the crowd dispersed, and he tore his eyes from the corner he'd watched Alexander bolt around several minutes before. It was ridiculous, arrogant. No, he certainly wouldn't give the man the satisfaction of a further fight. He crumpled the receipt, shoving it in his pocket when he heard his own flight being called, resigning to throw it away on the plane.

Ten hours, a hellish plane ride, and an immense hatred of jet-lag later, and Thomas found himself glaring at the crumpled receipt again, as though the numbers had personally offended him, which, he supposed, wasn't _too far_ off. Surely Alexander wasn't so close minded as to not see the truth? He could-

No. He wasn't going to dignify the man with another fight.

Absolutely not.

...

* * *

 **Conversation: (new contact - Alexander)**

 **I'm not wrong.**

 **Thomas J.**

* * *

 **Conversation: (Alexander)**

 **Yes you are.**

 **A. Ham**

* * *

 **Conversation: (Alexander)**

 **[** _ **Alexander is typing**_ **]**

* * *

 **So there's chapter one! I'm actually quite proud of everything I have set up for this work so far, which... is saying something. I don't generally plan fics ahead.**

 **As always, follows and favorites are greatly appreciated, and reviews give me actual life.**


	2. not looking for anything in particular

**A/N: So** **, this story and the ideas for it has,** **to quote Miss Angelica S** **chuyler,** **consumed my waking days. _You have no idea._**

 **Side note: I have done research but to be entirely honest with you I have little knowledge of how the US Military works. Given, I do have family members who are enlisted but to be quite honest, I am the worst liar on the planet and 'I need to know because I'm writing fanfiction about the founding fathers of our country' is not a conversation I'm willing to have right now. That said, if you notice any inaccuracies or factual errors in any of this, _please_ let me know so I can fix it?**

* * *

Two weeks after the fateful airport meeting, and Thomas was forcibly reminding himself that taking night classes had been his own idea. He'd wanted to spend his free time to be during the day, when he could explore, wander down Parisian streets and not even notice the fact that he was lost until his only option was to ask for directions back in his proudest, if accented, French. And so far? It was _wonderful._

That said, his own circadian rhythm was proving to be a tricky bitch to try and outdo. Despite the fact that he'd slept for nearly eight hours earlier in the evening and had only had to attend one class, he caught himself yawning by 2 AM as he worked on an essay.

He was a few minutes into his self debate on whether he should try to push through the fatigue or instead make some of the coffee his roommate had insisted he didn't mind sharing — it was a vile brew, extremely strong, and Thomas would honestly prefer his usual tea about a thousand times over, were it not for the fact that the stuff _worked —_ when his phone pinged loudly.

Rolling his head to ease the beginnings of a cramp from the way he was hunched over his laptop, he reached for the cell, finding his brow furrowing in confusion at the text that awaited him.

 **I'm dying. Thought I'd let you know.  
Goodbye.**  
— **A. Ham**

 **Excuse me?**  
— **Thomas J.**

It wasn't as though he wasn't used to messages from Hamilton — in fact, over the past few weeks they'd established pretty regular correspondence, with an additional, if unexpected, positive to his new schedule being that he was awake in that ever slim gap between the end of Alexander's training day and when he'd finally succumb to sleep. Usually though, it was an unsolicited point from their previous day's virtual debate that he'd thought of sometime during the day, so this was new.

He'd barely set the phone down before he got another message.

 **I'm dying.**  
 **Ceasing to exist.**  
 **Passing on.**  
 **Going into the great beyond.**  
 **C'mon Jefferson, I know you're slow but even you should be able to understand the concept.**  
— **A. Ham**

Thomas rolled his eyes.

 **Yes, I am aware of what 'dying' means.**  
 **So what happened?**  
— **Thomas J.**

 **Burr.**  
— **A. Ham**

He chuckled lightly, shaking his head in something close to understanding. Whenever he'd probed to see how Basic was going, he was almost sure to get a rant about the man. Aaron Burr, one of Hamilton's superiors despite being just a year older, he'd gone to Princeton and graduated early and had enlisted as an officer the first chance he'd gotten.

Thomas had asked, once, why Hamilton hadn't done the same. He'd mentioned that his family was pretty well off once, or at least relatively influential, and no matter how differently they saw things, the guy was clearly smart. (Brilliant, was more like it, from what Thomas could tell, but he'd admit _that_ over his dead body.) The only response he'd gotten was some vague statement about an incident involving Princeton's financial department.

 **What'd Burr do?**  
— **Thomas J.**

 **He started going on another one of his 'talk less' spiels.**  
— **A. Ham**

 **Okay, let me rephrase: What did** _ **you**_ **do?**  
— **Thomas J.**

 **Told him the truth.**  
— **A. Ham**

He found himself laughing quietly at that. One thing was for sure, if Hamilton wanted any future in the military he would _have_ to learn to hold his tongue. That said, he wasn't under any delusion that Burr would be the one the get that through his head. He didn't have the chance to put that sentiment into words though before he was barraged with messages.

 **Sonofabitch DOUBLED my PT!**  
 **And that's not even what pisses me off!**  
 **He only even did it because Lee made him!**  
 **The man has no spine.**  
— **A. Ham**

Thomas snorted. Only Hamilton could be punished for insubordination and then continue to be insubordinate in criticizing the way he'd been punished.

 **And now my whole body hurts.**  
 **Which brings me back to dying.**  
— **A. Ham**

This was how their conversations usually went, for the most part, anyway: Hamilton sending about a dozen or so rapid fire texts while Thomas waited for him to finish before even trying to make his own point. Given, most of their interactions turned into political debates that only ever ended when either he got heated enough to just stop replying or Alexander finally fell asleep, but the principle was basically the same.

 **You text quickly, for a dead man.**  
— **Thomas J.**

 **Shut up.**  
— **A. Ham**

He scowled at his phone then. Despite how frequently they communicated, Thomas didn't know Hamilton's personality quite well enough to be able to tell if he was being dramatic or was snapping out of frustration and pain. He was spared from having to guess a moment later, though.

 **Actually don't.**  
 **You distract from the feeling of my limbs slowly dying.**  
— **A. Ham**

For reasons Thomas couldn't begin to explain, the corner of his mouth twitched upward at that.

 **Well don't I feel honored.**  
— **Thomas J.**

 **Oh my god. I hate you.**  
— **A. Ham**

 **No you don't.**  
 **I distract you from the pain, remember?**  
— **Thomas J.**

 **Im going to regret telling ou that, aren't i?**  
— **A. Ham**

The smile dropped slightly then, at the sudden errors in punctuation and capitalization, then completely when a full minute passed and there was no correction. That was unusual. Hamilton was ornery about things like that, and even if he rushed through a text and made mistakes, the corrections were always seconds behind. He didn't hesitate to leap at any mistakes Thomas made either. A few days before, he'd written eight text bubbles worth explaining exactly how wrong he'd been to use the word 'affect' instead of 'effect.'

He had to be completely exhausted.

 **Most likely.**  
 **Get some sleep, Hamilton.**  
— **Thomas J.**

He waited a few minutes, and when there was no reply, he assumed the recruit had either listened to him or had been asleep since before he'd even sent his response. Setting his phone back aside, he returned to his work.

As he finished the assignment, he found his mind drifting back to Hamilton. Perhaps it was insignificant, but he caught himself pleased with the realization that they'd actually managed a conversation that didn't turn into some sort of debate, on politics or otherwise. There'd be no real argument, and while he didn't mind — and even enjoyed to an extent — their usual back and forth, it was a welcome change. It felt a little less like strangers who argued with each other for the pure sake of it and more like... well, he wasn't sure.

Friends, he supposed.

As tired as he was, he didn't actually go to bed until nearly seven AM, making sure his alarm was set to wake him before three at the latest, so he could go out before his first class at nine.

When he woke, he had a host of unread text messages, almost all sent in the early Virginian morning back home. It took him a while to notice the one from Hamilton, no doubt from before the South Carolinian dawn.

 **In a shocking turn of events, I am, in fact, not dead.**  
 **Yet.**  
 **Get some rest yourself, Jefferson.**  
— **A. Ham**

* * *

 **Let me just tell you, my dumb ass had to think _way too much_ about time zones and schedules for this chapter and I'm not sure I'm ashamed or proud of myself for it. **

**As always, follows and favorites are so much appreciated and reviews honest to god give me so much life you don't know. I just really like to know you guys are liking it, you know? Anyway, I'll see you next chapter!**


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